


Relative Changes in Likeliness

by Margot_Lescargot



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drunken hook-up, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Oneshot, POV Alexander Seawoll, Post-FV, Spoilers for False Value, feelings realisation (possibly), hangover of biblical proportions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25749670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Nightingale and Seawoll get horrendously drunk together.Next morning, memories are hazy, heads are sore.  (And underwear is missing.)Oh dear.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Relative Changes in Likeliness

‘Fuckers,’ he said, pushing roughly through the swing doors. ‘Absolute fucking fuckers.’

‘Come on, Alex,’ said Silver bracingly, as she followed him into the pub. ‘Let it go. There’s nothing we can do right now.’

‘Yeah. I _know_ that!’ He blew out a breath and turned to face her. ‘Sorry Alona. I’m not having a go at you. But... what more do they fucking need?’

‘Well we went through all that didn’t we?’ she said grimly as the others filed in behind her. ‘But we’ll get something. Something that “achieves best evidence”’ she forced the three words through gritted teeth and he snorted. ‘Look, Alex, we – _I_ – have been chasing this bastard for months. We know all his little games, his feints. He’ll slip up again sooner or later, because the ones who think they’re cleverer than us always do. Then we’ll have him. And until then..’ she shrugged.

‘Yeah, you’re right, I know. But it’s so...’ words failed him and he growled in frustration. Then sighed. ‘Oh well, fuck it. Like you say, nothing we can do about it for now.’ He looked around. ‘There’s a table over there,’ he said gesturing, and then turned his attention to the barman. ‘Over here lad, when you’re ready. I think you might need to line them up.’

*

He swam slowly towards consciousness. The first thing he registered was that his head hurt - No, but his head really fucking hurt - his _hair_ hurt. Was that even possible?

His mouth was dry and felt like the bottom of a birdcage – all shit and feathers. What the _fuck_ had he been doing last night? He couldn’t risk opening his eyes. Ok – give it a minute.

Something wasn’t quite right - something was off – what was it?

Fuck, he’d have to get out of bed soon and find some water – and his phone – and check if he needed to call in. And possibly throw up. Jesus. What day was it? – he thought – tried to work back – yesterday was… what? - He dimly remembered the case assessment briefing on that smug Aussie fucker – there was a niggle there, he’d have to come back to it – which had been scheduled for the 8th, which was a… Friday, that’s right – which meant, oh thank fuck, that it was the weekend.

And he’d made it to bed at least. That was a plus - and he’d even managed to get undressed and get into it and not pass out on top, or on the sofa, in his clothes - not that it hadn't been a long time since he’d done that, but the way he felt this morning, it had to have been in contention last night.

He cracked an eye – he didn’t bother trying to focus - the light was still grey, dim - early yet. Nothing too urgent to-

Hold on – that was it – the thing that was off – the insistent scratching at the back of his brain - the bed was wrong – no - no, not the bed - the covers were wrong – they were heavier than normal – like.. like old-fashioned blankets. But he didn’t have blankets like that.

Then it dawned on him - _he wasn’t in his own bed_ – and, more than that, he wasn’t wearing any fucking clothes - Oh holy fucking fuck – what had happened? – had he drunk-dialled an ex? - oh please let it not be Eddy – he couldn’t fucking deal with that right now, not feeling like this.

He risked cracking an eye again. A dresser, next to a chest of drawers came into focus – dark wood, decent pieces – not a hotel then – So where had he ended up? – Who had he ended up with? – Because he wasn’t alone, he was fairly certain of that – as his senses, such as they were, started to kick in again behind the dull, relentless pounding of his headache – he was sure that he wasn’t alone. He listened, couldn’t hear any obvious breathing, or feel any movement in the (now he noticed, too-strongly-sprung) mattress - but now he was aware of it, all he was conscious of was keeping his own breathing regular, his own body still. It was early. Perhaps he could sneak out. 

Fucking hell, Seawoll, really? How old are you?

Right, so - think - what had happened last night? 

Like a fortune teller in reverse, he tried to see what was in his recent past. They’d had that fucking meeting with the CPS – he couldn’t think about that right now, didn’t have the energy to get as angry as it deserved – then back to Belgravia with Alona to debrief – the Folly lot had been there – and then, given the general mood, he’d given them all permission to go to the pub and get pissed, himself most of all. 

So they’d decamped to the Burlington. He’d put his card behind the bar and distinctly remembered speaking at length and without hesitation, deviation or repetition about the adequacy of the CPS and its methods in the face of the travails of good, honest coppering. He remembered Peter leaving a few pints in, after being summoned by his missus, which was fair enough. Miriam following not long afterwards, surprisingly early for her - she’d muttered something about the goat, or asparagus, or something - but not before telling him to behave himself - whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean, the cheeky tart. Then it got hazy. Hazier. Sahra must have gone at some point – he vaguely recalled her bloke turning up to collect her. And, oh dear, he _might_ have pinned him against the bar and told him to make sure he treated her properly. Oh well. Fuck it, he could deal with that next week, if there was anything that needed dealing with. Alona must have left after that. It was a bit blurry. He couldn’t recall actually saying goodbye to her. Then, was last orders called? It must have been. He had a mental image of the pub, practically empty, and Silver not being there. Nightingale still was though, if memory served - which it wasn’t doing very fucking well right now, as it happened.

So what had happened after that? He concentrated, which did nothing to help his aching head, but it worked. Another memory flashed into his brain. Oh shit. After last orders, he and Nightingale had agreed they needed one for the road and they’d tried to persuade the barman to serve them, who’d insisted – unnecessarily emphatically - that they were closed and it was time to leave. So they’d decided to find a drink elsewhere. But all the late night bars nearby were far too full of young people, and they both had perfectly serviceable whisky at home. They'd gone to the Folly because it was closest. 

He'd gone back to the Folly with Nightingale.

Oh, fuck.

Oh. Fuck.

No - I mean, they wouldn’t have - Would they? _Would he_? Surely not - Maybe he ran into someone on his way home - He opened his eyes again, and scanned as much of the room as he could without moving his head. This time, he spotted a white shirt, crumpled and abandoned on the floor, which could - he thought hopefully for a second - have been anyone’s, and then, half-flung over a chair next to the dresser, was the burgundy regimental silk tie that he’d noticed Nightingale wearing yesterday.

Oh fuck. 

But - but - maybe they’d just crashed out. He was fairly sure Nightingale had matched him drink for drink - and he was smaller, so he must have been easily as hammered as he’d been - But no - Although it made his head swim even more to think through the logic, he had to admit that if he’d been drunk enough to go to bed with Nightingale in the first place, there’s no way it would have been on a non-touching basis. 

He really was not in any fit state to deal with this - whatever this was - but there was nothing else for it. Time to face the music. He took a breath and turned over. Nightingale was lying next to him. He was awake and staring at the ceiling, a thoughtful look on his face.

‘Thomas.’

‘Alexander.’

Nightingale didn’t turn his head.

‘If you’re feeling anywhere near as bad as I am, you’ll appreciate I’m not really capable of pleasantries this morning.’

‘As opposed to every other morning?’

‘Very funny.’ He paused. ‘So, er, what happened? I genuinely can’t… Did we..?’

Nightingale turned to face him.

‘If I’m honest, my recollection of events is hazy at best - given the frankly appalling amount of alcohol I appear to have consumed. As to what happened last night…’ He cleared his throat. ‘In the circumstances, or I ought to say rather, the evidence suggests…’ he trailed off.

‘Oh. Fuck.’

‘Yes. It would appear so.’

Alex blew out a long breath. ‘Oh well. Not much we can do about it now. No harm done, I suppose. We’re both grown-ups, both single.’ He paused, brow furrowed. ‘Hold on, you are, aren't you _?_ Unattached I mean. I don't think I could cope with this getting _more_ complicated.’

Nightingale gave a short laugh, and then winced. ‘You needn’t worry on that score. I am, as you say, unattached.’

‘Thank fuck for that. Well, as I say, no harm done then.’ He yawned. ‘What time is it?’

Nightingale retrieved his watch from the nightstand and squinted at it. ‘Not long after seven.’

‘Ok, I need to find my phone.’ He raised himself onto his elbows and flinched at the effect of the sudden movement on the timpani in his head. ‘Jesus. I haven’t felt this bad in ages.’ He looked around the room and saw his trousers nearby in a tangled heap with his underwear and socks. ‘Classy,’ he muttered to himself and levered himself upright slowly before bending to retrieve them - very, very carefully – and feeling, thankfully, the weight of his mobile in one pocket. 

He sat back on the edge of the bed and pulled out his phone, but before switching it on, he turned back to Nightingale. ‘Thomas, it’s a while since I’ve been in this situation, and so I’m sorry if this isn’t appropriate, but is there any way I could get a glass of water? Or several?’

Nightingale had returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. ‘Yes of course,’ he said, starting slightly. ‘Where are my manners?’ He got out of bed and padded towards the en suite. 

‘And anything in the way of painkillers you might have knocking around?’

He halted, frowning, ‘Painkillers? Oh you mean aspirin, that kind of thing? Yes, I believe I ought to have some somewhere. Good idea.’

He went into the bathroom and Alex heard rattling and a tap running, as he checked his messages. Nothing from work that demanded his immediate attention - thank fuck - a missed call from his sister-in-law, and a cryptic text from Miriam, saying she hoped he’d had a good night.

He harrumphed, as Nightingale came out of the bathroom and handed him a tooth mug of water and a small brown glass bottle.

He frowned. ‘What’s this?’

Nightingale looked nonplussed. ‘Aspirin. As requested.’

He shook the bottle and then peered at it. The label was faded, the typescript dated. ‘Thomas, how long have you had these?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea. A few years. More possibly. Does it matter? They’re hardly likely to go off are they?’

‘No, I s’pose you’re right. And better than nothing. Thanks.’ He took two pills, and gulped down the water in one, then handed the bottle to Nightingale who did the same and then took their glasses away to refill them.

He re-emerged from the bathroom and ‘You look very nice, by the way,’ came out of Alex’s mouth before he could think to stop it. Bollocks. It was true – he did – it turned out rumpled and hungover was a good look for Nightingale. But he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Oh well, fuck it. If they’d shagged last night, it was implied anyway.

Nightingale grinned ruefully. ‘I can’t say that I _feel_ particularly nice at the moment - if anything, I feel as if I have died and been inexpertly reanimated - but thank you.’ He handed a glass to Alex, sat down on the bed and reclined gratefully. ‘You were kind enough to say as much last night.’ He rearranged the pillows behind his back and settled back, closing his eyes with a sigh. ‘I believe I repaid the compliment. And now all that I ask is that I may be allowed to expire in peace.’

Alex began pulling on his trousers, gingerly. ‘Do we need to talk about this?’

Nightingale opened one eye and regarded him. ‘Are you quite mad?’

‘Fair enough.’ He started looking around for his shirt. Hold on. 

‘Hold on. “Last night”?’ He turned and eyed Nightingale narrowly. ‘So you do remember?’

He grimaced. ‘Not as such. Not entirely I mean. But, yes, a few flashes. You know how it goes. For what it’s worth, I am not in the habit of becoming quite so intoxicated.’

‘Hammered.’

‘Yes.’

‘Wasted.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Rat-arsed.’

‘Quite.’ He looked slightly pained. ‘What was your point again? In any event, that,’ and he gestured with his head and then seemed to regret it, ‘that was almost full before we got back here last night.’

He followed Nightingale’s gaze and saw a bottle of Laphroaig with a couple of centimetres of amber liquid left in the bottom, standing forlornly on a desk by the window.

‘Jesus. No wonder I feel… and did we not eat _anything_?’

‘No. I seem to recall that we intended to raid the kitchen here. I think at one point your intention was to make-‘

‘Cheese on toast’. Oh lord, it was coming back to him now.

‘Yes, that’s right. But we got, er, distracted on the way.’

Alex opened his eyes wide, and then shut them again, quickly. It hurt. ‘Yeah. Did you… carry me up the stairs?’

‘I did.’ Nightingale had closed his eyes again. ‘One flight. You said that you didn’t believe that I could do so without, and I quote, the assistance of the weird bollocks. So I proved that I could.’

‘And,’ Alex furrowed his brow, ‘then I carried you up the next flight.’

‘Yes. You insisted upon it. But I have to say, it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.’

‘To the floor where your bedroom is?’

‘Well, yes, that does appear to be where the matter ended.’

He had a sudden recollection of laughing, of stumbling and being caught before he fell. And Nightingale smiling at him. And then… yeah, that was it. 

He was silent. He’d need to think about this at some point and what the implications were. Or even whether there were any. But not right now. He just wanted to lie down again. He looked at his phone. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. He wondered how easily he could pick up a cab.

Nightingale spoke again. ‘If you aren’t feeling quite the thing – and God knows, I empathise – you can stay here and rest for a while.’ Then added, after a moment, ‘If you want to, that is.’

He huffed slightly. ‘Thomas, in light of what’s happened, I am far too hungover for any plausible deniability shit.’

‘Alexander, I do not know what plausible deniability means, and, at this precise moment, I have little to no interest in finding out. If you would like to stay here a little longer, while you compose yourself, I have absolutely no objection. Quite the reverse in fact.’ He paused. ‘Does that cover everything?’

‘I suppose,’ he said, more grumpily than he’d intended. He lay down on the bank of pillows again and sighed with relief. ‘I’ll leave in a bit then, if that’s alright.

‘Perfectly. Now do be quiet for a while, there’s a good chap.’

Silence descended, and they both fell into a doze. About an hour and a half later, he woke again to the warmth of the risen sun filling the room. Still feeling dog-rough, it couldn’t be denied, but nowhere near as bad as earlier. Nightingale was still snoring softly to his side. He closed his eyes and began to drift off again until he felt, more than heard, Nightingale come to consciousness.

‘Alright Alexander?’

‘Better, at least. Thank you.’

‘Not at all,’ Nightingale yawned suddenly and thrust both arms above his head, stretching and arching his back like a cat. He looked away. After a moment.

‘Regrettably, I need to move. Abigail will be arriving for Latin at midday - if she is not here already and looking up who knows what in the magical library - and I need to prepare.’

‘You need to prepare for a lesson that _you’re_ giving?’

Nightingale snorted. ‘You have no idea. But, yes.’ He stretched again and swung his legs out of bed. ‘And you?’

‘Nothing I absolutely need to do today and I haven’t been called in so far. I was supposed to be going out for dinner tonight, but balls to that, I’m going to cancel.’ He stood up slowly and started looking around for the rest of his clothes.

‘You may feel better later.’

‘Later, I assure you, I will be feeling nothing more than the urge to lie on my sofa watching television and continuing to groan at appropriate intervals.’

‘Yes, well, in the circumstances I’d say that constitutes an excellent plan,’ said Nightingale, starting to gather sundry items of his own discarded clothing from the floor.

He hesitated, while buttoning his shirt. There was an opening there if he wanted one. He took a deep breath. Was he going to do this? Really? He opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. 

No. Not today. Not in this state. Not when they were both in this state. Maybe another time though. Maybe. He'd have a think about it. Definitely. Preferably when he wasn't suffering from a hangover of fucking biblical proportions.

‘Ok then,' he said instead, shrugging on his jacket. 'If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my shoes and somewhere that serves coffee by the gallon. And not necessarily in that order.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from False Value.
> 
> (“Inexpertly Reanimated” is the title of Carnal Idolatry’s difficult second album.)


End file.
